


The Rotating Stage

by GrowingAHead (shelleyk0503)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Could be Team Gotham, Gen, In all sense of the word, M/M, Slow Burn, Tim's got it bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8506582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelleyk0503/pseuds/GrowingAHead
Summary: Many of Batman's Rogues are mysteriously absent from the city. There is a rumor of a  'Bat-Sickness' spreading inside Gotham. There's a new billionaire in town competing with Bruce Wayne. Against this backdrop, Tim is struggling against a personal issue that puts a rift between him and his mentor. Then one night, a mass poisoning nearly cripples Arkham and a new villain sends a message to both the Bat and the Clown. These seemingly unrelated events may prove to be all parts of the same design.   *Rewritten version of "Many Paths to Night".





	1. Act 1-1

**Author's Note:**

> After much consideration, I’ve decided to rewrite “Many Paths to Night” because as much as the story is about the Batman and the Joker, TIM (Robin here) turned out to be the main voice – much to my surprise. The plot remains nearly identical yet the viewpoint change does make quite a difference. 
> 
> I’m keeping “Many Paths to Night” up. I’m actually not sure which version I like more – it’s just that this version seems to fit better for the current direction, and with a relatively faster pace. To everyone who read, left kudos, and commented on “Many Paths to Night”, I sincerely thank all of you and hope you’ll continue to read this as well. 
> 
> Although the Batman/Joker pair get the ‘center stage’, so to speak, the story is really about the hero/villain dynamic in Gotham (Or so I hope). The story genre I’m thinking about is a thriller. As for the pairings, it won’t be anything too graphically sexual (at this point) – more like innuendos, implications, and some touching.
> 
> As I’ve mentioned in my notes in “Many Paths to Night”, I’ve no specific ‘verse’ in mind – I’ve picked my favorite parts from various versions of “Batman” for this little ‘mix-and match’ universe. A sort of a ‘floating’, ‘stand-alone’ Bat-verse.

 

* * *

 

 

_Once upon a time, there was a child._

_The child walked into darkness._

_And the darkness said to the child,_

_“Shall we make a bet?”_

 

* * *

 

 

The rain settled heavily on Tim’s head. A lock of hair kept drooping over his face and he brushed it away, irritated. The rain even _smelled_ heavy, weighing down on his senses along with the ever-present smell of grass and cold masonry of the place, heightened by wetness.

From his vantage point up on the tree in the courtyard, he looked over the grotesque roofs of the old building in front of him. There were always _some_ crows around the asylum, as if the universe fancied itself a stage director and took pride in setting up an appropriate atmosphere. But Tim knew that the particular crows he was familiar with wouldn’t be here right now. 

Crane’s crows seemed to know exactly when their master was absent from Arkham.

The crows that _were_ around through, were agitated, flitting from one rooftop to another. This was due to the unusual buzz of frantic activity that surrounded the area - loud beeping noises and red lights of emergency vehicles going in and out, people in uniforms carting portable beds flanked with medical equipment, and the media crew. A live broadcast from GNBC was now flowing through Tim’s comm:

_“... while the exact number of victims from the mass poisoning tonight at the asylum is still being confirmed, it’s estimated that there are already ten deaths among both staff and patients. The surviving victims appear to have fallen into a coma. Among such victims are some of the more notorious Arkham residents such as Jervis Tetch, aka Mad Hatter, and Arnold Wesker, aka the Ventriloquist...”_

Tim silently skipped around to the back corner of the asylum, mercifully free of such activity except for the presence of two guards.

Apparently the universe was quite unashamed of exaggerated direction this night, for an opportune thunder highlighted Tim as he flew in, even providing a sound effect a second later with the roll of thunder as he landed, causing the guards to gasp and stumble backwards.

“The Hell…!”

“Good – night to you, sirs,”

Tim liked to think that he’d passed the phase where he relished every dramatic entrances. So he endeavored to downplay it – if only for the guilt he felt at the flustered guards. One of them he was marginally familiar with – although he’d never learned the man’s first name, just the surname of Brennan.

The guards had recovered, Brennan recognizing Tim first. He managed a nod and a weak smile.

“Hardly a _good_ night,”

“I understand that, Mr. Brennan, and I’m sorry. Which was why I was going to have a look around?”

The other guard tilted his head suspiciously.

“What, the masks are now coming in for food poisoning cases? I mean, it’s bad but…"

Brennan quickly silenced his partner by shooting a look at him. Then he turned to look back at Tim. To be exact, Brennan was looking _over_ Tim. Tim quelled the small disappointment and annoyance that arose. He had been visiting Arkham regularly for a while now and he believed he’d built a rapport between some of the staff. And yet... at times like this, the whole of Arkham reverted to _that_ look. It helped little that Dick, Jason, and Barbara herself during her time as Batgirl – all had experienced it whenever they happened to drop by Arkham without Bruce. The inmates and the staff would keep looking over their shoulders as well as around them, trying to spot another presence. You could practically feel them thinking: ‘Oh, you mean it’s just...  _you?’_

 _You call a friend for keeping company. But when you get into an_ accident, _you call your_ dad _._

Outwardly, Tim merely said, “Batman has another matter at GCPD,” he pointed up at the Bat Signal, blurred and a little feint against the murky night sky. "...so I’ll be looking over the scene. Of course, if you have to get permission for me from..."

“You mean a _courtesy_ call, not an _actual_ permission – it’s not like you’d be deterred from your investigation now, would you?”

Three heads turned to the source of new voice - which was a tall, lanky man that had appeared at the back door of the building. He had the standard white gown of an Arkham doctor, albeit rumpled and with rolled-up papers sticking out of every pocket. The man smiled at Tim.

“ _Turdus migratorius (_ American Robin) or _Erithacus rubecula_ (European Robin)? Which one did we agree on? I don’t remember we did? I think you said you being the former made more sense, what with you being an American cape and all. But you know _Turdus migratorius_ is actually a _thrush_ rather than a robin, right?”

Tim smiled back at the man.

“Dr. Cheng,”

“ _Dave_ ,”

Arkham’s Chief of Medical Division waved his hand as if to shoo away the title and looked over to the guards.

“I’ll take over from here, briefing him and all that – it’s been cleared with Marsellus. I know you flit around just as well as an actual _Erithacus_ but I think you’d be better off with a guide if you don’t want to unnecessarily bump into medics and GCPD officers swarming the place,”

Tim gratefully stepped towards the beckoning doctor, nodding to the guards as he passed them and trying to pretend that he didn’t hear the guards whispering behind him. (“What’s the doc calling him? I thought he was called Kid Wonder,” – then Brennan gravely admonishing his colleague: “ _Boy_ Wonder,”)

_Would you kindly look after the crows, Boy Wonder._

The content of the note hidden deep inside one of his secret pockets echoed in Tim’s mind as he followed the doctor in, the imagined voice making Tim’s insides go tight.

 

* * *

 

**Act 1-1.**

 

_“Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under’t.”_

**_William Shakespeare. Macbeth_ (Act 1, Scene 5)**

 

* * *

 

“Marsellus would’ve come himself to greet you, if he weren’t so caught up with restraining himself from giving media the finger and assuaging the hysterical board of directors. The speed with which they assailed poor Marsellus is quite remarkable, usually it takes Herculean effort to rouse them enough to be up on their asses for anything. I think the only absent member is Bruce Wayne. I tell you, everyone thinks he’s all _mien_ with no actual _marrow_ but that man has wisdom enough to distance himself from the fire-spitting meetings such as this one.”

The doctor absently fingered one of the rolled-up newspapers stuffed inside his many pockets, as others would rub their chins in thought.

“Although, I rather think it may have paid to make himself a bit of a showpiece in this case. In his absence, that Marsh fellow throwing his weight about, egging those idiots on.”

Tim looked up at the doctor with curiosity.

“I take it you don’t like Ronald Marsh all that much? He _has_ recently donated a considerable amount to fund both the asylum and its projects...”

“Perhaps it’s because I am a native Gothamite and I feel duty-bound to cheer for one of ours.”

“How is Marsellus holding up?”

Tim was genuinely concerned. This would be the first real crisis that Marsellus was facing since he took over the asylum’s administration. Dr. David Cheng shrugged.

“The man had been inundated with accusations of keeping his soul in a briefcase since 1994. And that’s one of the less vulgar jokes. That sort of thing builds inner strength.”

The man’s remarkable resemblance to the gang boss character featured in the iconic movie hadn’t escaped anybody, to the point where everyone just ditched his surname ‘Willman’ altogether when referring to the new head of Arkham.

‘New’ – Tim wondered how long the adjective should stick. After all, it had been over a year since Jeremiah Arkham had unexpectedly resigned and left Gotham seemingly for good. Everyone – including Bruce and Jim Gordon – tensed for the inevitable reign of absolute chaos in the asylum that was already a proper hellhole. Then Marsellus had stepped in and Arkham’s legacy had since been divided between Arkham family’s reign and afterwards. (Some jokingly referred to it as B.A and A.A – Before and After the 'Arkhams'.)

Marsellus had implemented some radical changes within the asylum: While Arkham’s reputation for chemical studies and security measures were already set during Jeremiah’s time, Marsellus made them into full-blown projects. Now Arkham boasted a whole separate building that served as a state-of-the-art chemical lab which was unique in the nation as no-one, except perhaps for Batman, had ready access to data such as Poison Ivy’s plants, Scarecrow’s toxins or the Joker’s gas. He installed a resident building engineer to work with the security team that could put most private security companies to shame. Marsellus had also dedicated a whole team to build a digital database of asylum’s records. Then the PR team – also newly implemented - liaised with various institutions all across the nation that were interested in such data.

Arkham was becoming a vast multi-research center and an information consultation hub.

Marsellus had also weeded out much of the previous staff of long-standing influence to bring in new bloods within the facility – although, given the institution’s reputation, some wondered if he’d kidnapped many of these new staff and threatened them with grievous bodily harm. David Cheng was one of the more celebrated members of this so-called ‘Marsellus Era’ staff.

“Well, to be frank, perhaps not Marsellus. But Lily, now, she’s the one who really needed to see you. What with how your last visit went,”

Tim nearly stopped in his tracks.

_“I’m speaking not only in my professional stance, but also of concern for you._

_I don’t think it advisable that you continue your interviews with Dr. Jonathan Crane, Mr. Robin...”_

“What did……Dr. McGuire say?”

Tim inwardly kicked himself, he sounded so accusatory – but thankfully, the man walking beside him didn’t seem to catch it.

“Nothing, I’m just inferring. You did look like thunder when you stormed out of here the last time.”

Tim felt the flush of shame and anger rising – and of course, _feeling_ it made the flush even worse, climbing up to the tips of his ears. He was grateful for the misty darkness of the asylum.

Quite unaware of his companion’s discomfort, David Cheng continued, “If only she hadn’t been hit by this silly poisoning business. Oh, perhaps you didn’t know it yet? I keep assuming you masked vigilante types already know everything before anything happens.”

People who weren’t familiar with the current Arkham staff would no doubt consider David Cheng as either malicious or so apathetic to the point of being clinically diagnosed. Due to Marsellus' belief that competency could excuse nearly everything, the new staff tended to be of – if one was being polite - _distinct_ personalities. To the point where people sometimes felt that many of the new staff now belonged on the same side of the glass that their patients were in. Tim, however, had gotten used to them during his visits and could tell certain signs.

“I have the preliminary information about the victims although the number isn’t exact - what with people being transferred from here to other facilities. I am aware that Dr. McGuire and many of the patients under relatively - 'stable' conditions are being treated here at the asylum.”

As Tim spoke, he noticed that David had taken out one of the rolled-up newspapers tucked into his side pocket and was absently slapping it onto his other palm as they rounded a corner on the hallway, away from the frantic sounds of GCPD officers, the press, and grim medics. The man subscribed to all manner of regularly published paper and any sort of emotion he felt was expressed in how he fumbled with his reading materials. Right now, David Cheng was agitated and angry.

“You know she was supposed to be on leave until today? Except the idiot came to work this evening straight from the airport, she’d been to New York to visit Sharon – you know _her_ story – and she always comes back feeling worse from that pristine purgatory they call Sinclair NY Psychiatry. I mean, ours have a _personality_ at least – so she came to work had dinner here, and now she’s in a coma,”

The swinging of the paper stopped momentarily as the doctor pondered the idiocy of workaholics. In that moment, Tim noticed a headline on the crumpled newspaper - NY Times – and frowned. Although only a few words were visible, Tim could practically recite the headline as it was part of a series of news that had been bothering them for a while now: 

_"Red Hood Out of Control? The casualties from the escalating war with local gangs increase...”_

Oblivious, David went on, “Just a chance that I’m not in the bed next to Lily, felt like a takeout sandwich tonight for some reason. Heh, does that make me a suspect?”

Tim raised an eyebrow.

“You suspect foul play? Doesn’t everyone think it’s just an accident?”

“Well, _you_ are here.”

“It’s Arkham, you know how Batman and… the rest of us are with Arkham,”

They’d stopped by the front of the medical ward. This was devoid of any other medic except the Arkham staff inside, because the coma cases had already been somewhat ‘stabilized’ here. Tim peered inside as he spoke, “That, and considering the expertise of current Arkham Medical Division, one’d have thought there’d be measures taken already for any ordinary food poisoning. Yet there doesn’t seem to be any announcement regarding the nature of the poison nor the exact source, not to mention the exact treatment...”

Tim let the words hang in the air for a moment. Then suddenly, David started to rattle off certain words in succession: “Tropane alkaloids – hyoscyamine, scopolamine, and atropine - found in _Solanaceae_ family, very likely _Datura metel_ in this case. Aconitine, produced by _Aconitum_. Coniine, present in _Conium masculatum_ – “

Tim tilted his head. “Plant of Nightshade family, probably Devil’s Trumpet, monskwood or wolf’s bane, and – hemlock.”

David beamed, “Very good. Most of the GCPD had trouble _googling_ them.”

Tim suspected that the doctor probably hadn’t won any fans among Gotham’s Finest during his interview regarding the poisoning case. Outwardly, he said: “Names of toxins found inside tonight’s victims?”

“And what remained of tonight’s stew at the kitchen. No idea how the stuff got _in_ there, though. And it’s just some parts of the damned thing we’ve managed to identify. It’s a _cocktail_ of various toxic entities. Which is why we still can’t figure out the treatment – and it’s not just a fact that it’s a mixture, but it seems to contain _mutated_ versions of the previously existing alkaloids…”

“…and the toxins are all derived from _flowering plants._ …”

The two looked at each other for a moment. Tim broke the silence first: “Poison Ivy? But why…”

David shrugged. “Only because other possibilities are slim. Like you said, our medical division isn’t too bad in what we do but this level of chemical alteration… the only examples that I can state are those that have previously been studied within Ms. Isley’s hybrids.”

Whump-whump, the sound of the rolled-up newspaper marking the doctor’s agitation rang hollow in the relatively quiet hall. The doctor intoned again, “Not saying she’s the culprit, but the nature of the toxins heavily points towards her being the _source_ of the compound, at least. Too bad she’s not here to give advice nor defense.”

“I understand that it’s been a more than a week since her latest breakout.”

“Another sore point for our dear security team. And she seemed to have been getting along so well - our feelings are hurt. Well, I suppose one will break out even from a five-star hotel if you’re being held there. Which reminds me, it’s been a while since I’ve heard of any of the _Names_ – you don’t know anything about Nygma planning any riddle-related heist since he got out of here? I miss him.”

 _I bet you do_.

Tim replied, “No idea, I’m afraid. To be honest, it’s been bothering us as well – been a while since we’ve seen anything of them."

David shrugged again. “Perhaps it’s just as well they weren’t here. It’d have been a mass panic on top of all this – there’d be practically no staff left to deal with them if they were here. Well, granted, I suppose most of them barring the Joker – never know how any chemical might react within _that_ one – would’ve been knocked out as well. Just look at poor Tetch and Wesker.”

Tim felt a ghost of that stomach-plummeting sensation he had when he first heard about the mass poisoning at Arkham. It had abated only when sense kicked in and reminded him: _He’s not there right now, he’s not there. He’s_ **fine** _-_

Tim put a metaphorical foot down on that reminiscence. “Thank you so much, Doctor – Dave, I’ll just look around the area and the – patients in the ward, if you don’t mind,”

David winked. “And that’s the cue that you want to be left alone, right? Sure, just give me a call when you need me.”

As he passed Tim and went back down the hallway, the doctor turned once and called over his shoulder: “Just curious, it’s not because of that rumor of Bat-Sickness that the Bat isn’t coming, is it?”

Tim looked back at the doctor. Honestly, the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“No.”  _I don’t think so._

“Well, nothing in it, I’m sure. But people are superstitious and even if you’re not, you’re sometimes forced to accommodate those who are.”

With that note, the doctor got away from Tim’s vision and Tim was left alone. Sighing, he pushed open the door to the medical ward – left unlocked right now, staff getting in and out too often – waved hi to the familiar staff overseeing the patients – and crossed over to where Dr. Lillian McGuire was lying. Close, he could see the miniscule rising and falling of her chest, her blond hair that was usually in a tight, professional bun splayed like bunch of straws across the pillow, and the constant drop of the liquid that the IV was pumping into her system.

 _“Mister – Robin, I felt it best to inform Batman about you – your -_ situation _regarding Scare - Dr. Jonathan Crane. I thought Batman would talk to you. Make you understand. You’re angry, of course. I’m sorry it had turned out like this.”_

“I’m sorry,” Tim whispered. Whether it was a sentiment for her current state or an actual apology, he wasn’t sure.

He turned away from the pale, gaunt face – it was uncanny how the absence of a mind affected the body, he could hardly recognize the alert yet humorous psychologist from this – _shell_ of a woman lying here. He wondered if that was how Lillian felt whenever she visited her former mentor and lover, Sharon.

His gaze absently traveled over to a small stand next to the unconscious woman - which had a stack of clipboards, files, and papers. Tim gestured to the orderly. 

“These are…?”

“Dr. McGuire’s work pile – nothing important, it’s more for show. You see, it’s Dave’s idea that since she’s such a workaholic that the presence of the familiar might rouse her or something,” the orderly seemed embarrassed and added sheepishly, “Yeah, it probably sounds pretty silly to you – “

“No, I understand.”

As the orderly went back to her duties, Tim picked up one of the files and absently flipped through it. Like the orderly had said, it wouldn’t be anything important. The notes on the patients or any official reports were classified and for those, you needed permission or... more indirect means.

Tim didn’t really expect to find anything related to the poisoning here, it was really a sort of preliminary exercise to get his senses revved up before beginning an actual investigation but something caught Tim’s eye. It was a note that the doctor had scribbled. To anyone, it was exactly that – an illegible scribble but Tim was aware that Dr. McGuire always did her notes in a code of her own making – an analogue ‘encryption’, as she described it.

She was quite good at it too. It had taken Tim nearly two full days to figure out her code after he’d ‘accidentally’ picked up a few of her discarded notes.

Of course, he hadn’t used any of the computers at the cave as it was just a personal challenge. However, in this case... Tim’s brain translated the scribbles almost on autopilot: _Talk to Batman? Meeting with Tetch?_

Since Crane wasn’t at the asylum right now, Tetch _was_ her current primary patient among the Names, aka Rogues. But… Frowning at the still-cryptic note, Tim turned it over to the very last page on the file. His eyes widened a little. It was an empty report format, yet to be filled – but attached to it with a clip was a rumpled trump card. A fancy one, perhaps even custom-made, with an intricate illustration of black, red and green.

A joker.

 

* * *

 

Had Tim known that _his_ mentor was staring at a very similar incarnation of what he’d found among Dr. McGuire’s notes in that very same hour, he might have felt the directing hand of the universe even more keenly.

The joker card that Batman was looking down at was attached to a page of what could be described as a handmade booklet of a sort. On the facing page was the same Bat symbol that was a permanent fixture on the rooftop of GCPD office – drawn in what appeared to be black ink. Across the two pages lay a heading in letters torn from some magazines – ‘ _Dramatis Personae’._

Jim Gordon fought the urge to shift his feet as the looming figure kept looking at the open booklet – as motionless as the gargoyles that adorned other rooftops of the city. The rain had dwindled to a light drizzle a moment ago and was now mostly gone. Small mercies. It'd have been awkward to have all these members inside his office or crowding around the stairway like some over-sized kids smoking in secret. Gordon glanced behind him. The woman and the man standing there seemed comfortable just looking at the dark caped figure studying their handout. Gordon seemed to be the only one here who was unsure of his role. Well, he knew what his role was, actually, the FBI agent had said it the moment she’d stepped into his office.

“May we ask you to summon the Bat for us, commissioner.”

He hadn’t been caught completely off guard, except for the blunt way that the request was put. He had received a call from his old colleague Brandon Walsh, now an agent at the NY field office for FBI. A heads-up for an old friend, Walsh had said.

“While I appreciate you letting me know that a couple of FBI special agents would be barging in here in about… oh, twenty minutes to inquire about our _rooftop equipment_ , I can’t help but wish that your bureau had given us a heads-up a bit earlier,”

“I myself found out only a few moments ago. I'm only calling you because you were my least annoying partner back in Chicago days, Jim. Well, I wouldn’t wish the Pulp Investigative Team upon my worst enemy,”

“The… what?”

“P.I.T. From the Pulp magazines of the olden days, you know – The Shadow, Zorro, Doc Savage? It’s not an _official_ title as such, more like a bad joke. We call them that because they specialize in cases that might have been written by Pulp authors – criminals with grandiose names and costumes. But that’s not half of it. If I give you details over the phone, you wouldn’t believe me, Jim.”

“Don’t tell me they’re after… Batman…. Or does this have to do with Red Hood issue in New York?”

“I think it’s more like they have something _for_ the Bat. Look, Jim, I just wanted to warn you to stay away from those agents and whatever they bring. Especially from Special Agent Tanith.”

Special Agents Melinda Tanith and Sergio Lopez had arrived soon after Walsh’s call. Gordon sensed that Walsh’s warning might not have been enough. Agent Lopez could have been a textbook model for the FBI, dressed in immaculate yet no-nonsense dark suit and silent to the point of being almost nonexistent despite his considerable bulk. Agent Tanith was the one who apparently made up for the official normalcy of her partner – she was dressed in shabby black jeans and a black jacket that was a couple sizes too big as well as worn black leather shoes – giving an impression of something like an undertaker from a comic-book setting. But what turned heads as she stepped into the GCPD office was her face – where burn scars like spiky red snakes dominated, slithering all the way down her neck to hide beneath her rumpled collar.

“Not quite as symmetrical as your ex-attorney, right? Too soon?” were her first words upon noticing everyone’s looks.

After the agent’s… direct request, Jim Gordon had regained enough footing to counter: “And might I ask why the FBI would like to call upon Batman?”

The answer to this had derailed Gordon once more.

“Why, because we don’t know how to summon the _other_ one, that infamous Clown of yours.”

As Gordon sat behind his desk, trying to find a suitable reply or a question, the agent had pulled out that damn booklet from her bag. Then came the story that went with it.

And now here they were.

Gordon hoped that the agents weren’t expecting him to relay the whole story to Batman. He was still having trouble grasping it. He was relieved to see Agent Tanith step forward again, craning her neck towards the caped figure.

“Anything inside that thing mean anything to you? I mean, aside from that obvious front page."

“Should it, agent?”

Those were the first words Batman had spoken since the arrival and Gordon’s introduction. Gordon felt a strange, cold sensation running along his spine upon hearing it, like a spell breaking. Perhaps the agent felt it too, for she answered with a shaky laugh.

“I just wondered, because I can’t make heads or tails of it. And that’s not usually the case. Actually, all this is highly unusual. We don’t usually approach _Dramatis Personae_ this directly – because no-one would believe the story we have to tell them but, this time, we figured we had a chance because – it’s Gotham, the Motherland of costumed criminals. And you, are a _bat-man_ who swoops away such criminals. Compared to that, our story might sound positively banal.”

The agent swiped a hand downwards in a mocking gesture of a theatrical bow. “My role here, as you might be wondering, is that of a prologue, a narrator. So I shall narrate: All this concerns a certain character that our team has been hunting for a while. We call this character – well, might be he, she, or they – the Director."

The agent took a breath. "The Director likes to stage dramas using people involved in crimes. What you’re holding could be called his script. The _Dramatis Personae_ , as indicated there, are his protagonists,”

The agent had leaned against the Bat Signal. Against its light, Gordon could see the woman’s damaged lips curling upwards in a sneer.

“What the Director calls his protagonists, we call his _victims._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's a pretty cheerful incarnation of Arkham that I've envisioned here... I know 'cheerful Arkham' is like saying 'bitter sugar' but quirky Arkham staff bouncing off its... unique residents is something I enjoyed picturing. 
> 
> I don't think I've seen Crane's recent incarnations keeping actual crows but in the comic "Haunted Knight", Crane had crows that looked as if they were trained by him, and the image stuck to me.
> 
> I try to research how FBI works but I am no expert and I do take liberties in how I write their operations. The Pulp Investigative Team idea is from the Pulp magazines of the early-to-mid 1900s. Some do consider superhero media to be 'successors' of those works. 
> 
> As for the new head of Arkham, I'm talking about Marsellus Wallace from the movie "Pulp Fiction".


	2. Act 1-2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Arkham poisoning points to an unexpected source. 
> 
> The FBI tells Batman about the Director and their methods. Tim is informed about the Director through Barbara. 
> 
> And Bruce takes a short trip down the memory lane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mention of killings of children.

**Act 1-2**

 

_"What's Past is Prologue"_

**_William Shakespeare. The Tempest_ (Act 2, Scene 1)**

 

* * *

 

 

Tim wasn’t sure what possessed him to swipe the joker card.

The police had been here before him. Surely they’d done their search. So anything they missed… Well, that really was their entire purpose, wasn’t it? To see what the rest had missed.

Tim made a call to Dr. Cheng – Dave - to get an update the list of victims: “ – Ms. Hun, too.”

It took Tim a moment to remember the name of Arkham’s resident cook (Everyone just called her Madame Cook). Dave was still talking, “That at least rules the Joker out.”

“… Just because he happens to like her cooking?”

“That, and don’t you think this is too _sedate_ for his tastes?”

Tasteless as the doctor’s commentary might have been, Tim had to agree. Still, if they were going by whose ‘favorite staff’ remained unharmed, then Nygma was their best suspect - as evidenced by Dave. Tim toyed with the idea of expressing this but settled for: “Somehow, I don’t think this is one of our usual suspects.”

As Tim spoke, his eyes trailed over absently. He had wandered down to the end of the hall that opened to a wide resting area with glass walls that offered a view to the back gardens. It was dimly lit by some garden lamps. Tim could see a wide patch of vegetable field. It must’ve been the mention of Ms. Hun that led his gaze – for he knew that the cook liked to cultivate her own vegetables, with some of the more high-functioning patients putting in some extra labor.

Was there something moving along the far end of the field? Or just a shadow cast by trees…?

“Dave, Ivy’s last therapist, it was Dr. Jared Singh, right? Can you tell me anything about him?”

“Weeelll, there was a bit of a tension going on because Singh was trying to pick fights with Lily.”

“With Dr. McGuire? Why?”

“You see, Marsellus wanted to assign Lily to the Clown Prince of Crime himself. And Singh had practically been begging for that position for like, what, three months? Except Marsellus isn’t an idiot nor a sadist. Attaching Singh to the clown would’ve been like throwing a mouse into a viper pit.”

Tim took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“It didn’t seem very relevant. Besides, it’s usual for Singh, he launches himself at some obscure goals. It's a tick. Last year, he jostled for Head of Medicine and then walked around throwing daggers at me with his eyes. Then he got this latest urge – in this case, suicidal.”

“So Lily's latest patient was not Tetch, but the Joker?”

“Lily didn’t accept. Actually, she’s been highly averse to the idea. Can’t blame her. You know, years back, Lily had seen firsthand what happened to Sharon… ”

Tim nodded. Even though he knew the story of unfortunate Dr. Sharon Raman, it was difficult to imagine Lily McGuire actually afraid. She was not a typically tough-looking woman at a first glance, but she had a sort of malleable resilience that rendered impacts null as a sponge does. Tim had been impressed with the way she interacted with Crane, to the point where Tim had been envious –

Tim said, “Considering no one has anything flattering to say about Dr. Singh, I’m surprised he was assigned to Ivy at all.”

“Off-the-record, he'd been developing this pheromone-blocker compound that’d render Ivy's effects null, and he wanted the data first-hand by testing it on himself. He’s actually a lot better chemist than he's a psychiatrist.”

“Yet he’s not the Head of Arkham’s Medical Division.”

“Well, _I_ am here, Marsellus has to be realistic. And also, Ivy, to everyone's surprise, didn’t seem to mind Singh. And before you ask the inevitable question, nothing of _that_ sort between them."

 _As far as anyone knows._ Tim thought. _And in the end, how much is_ that? Tim narrowed his eyes, wondering at another flicker of movement among the darkness of the garden. When Dave intoned ‘You want to talk to him? Oh, actually, today is his leave…’ Tim replied, “I’ll get back to you, Dave.”

Cutting off the call, Tim approached the glass walls. There was no doubt now. there was a sort of hunched figure bobbing up and down among the vegetation. Sliding to a darker corner so that he wouldn’t be seen, Tim carefully navigated himself to the back door. When he stepped out to the back courtyard, he felt certain pieces click together at the same time as the cold, wet night air hit him. _Toxins from flowers, Ivy, cook_ _’s vegetable garden, the dinner stew…_

The hunched figure at the far end row of the field rose up straight into the domino mask.

The figure gave a cry and stumbled down on its haunches.

“Doctor.” Robin looked down and saw that the figure’s hands were filthy with dirt. He’d been digging with his bare hands. “What are you doing here, may I ask?”

The man was dressed in Arkham gown, despite Dave’s confirmation that it was his day off. The man’s head moved to his left, downwards. Tim followed his gaze. There was a small shoot bending with the weight of flowers dangling along its length, raindrop-littered petals glowing violet-white as moonlight washed over them. The errant black dirt from the frantic digging was the only thing marring their beauty. The fallen man’s arm flinched towards it. Then he shuddered.

To Tim’s astonishment, Jared Singh began to cry.

 

* * *

 

  

“But I did ask whether you recognize anything from that book. There SHOULD be one.”

On the GCPD rooftop, the agent with the burn scars tilted her head and smiled again, as if enjoying some private joke.

“You know, I almost thought someone played a joke on me – our jolly office mates. The Director’s MO is that once the _Dramatis Personae_ are identified, the script makes itself known through them. In this case, we’re pretty sure who the main characters are but we have no idea about the drama itself. The Director never broke the pattern like that. But that thing at the end – we did some research and - that, that’s the real thing, isn’t it?”

Batman had, slowly, turned to the last page. Attached to it was an old sheet of a sketchbook – on it, an ink drawing of black, red, and green.

 

* * *

 

 

_… And Bruce sees himself standing in a small room of Arkham’s innermost unit. It is years ago, when the word ‘family’ only constituted of Alfred and Bruce’s haunting memories. It is back when he still felt the weight of the suit separate from his own body._

_It is a personal area of Jeremiah Arkham, a special room he only opened to some of his closest colleagues or the most important benefactors._

_“You have a unique taste, Mr. Wayne.”_

_The Head of Arkham slides over to the billionaire. This assures that no one will try to break into their conversation. Jeremiah Arkham’s piercing attention makes everyone in his vicinity feel that they’re his potential patients, and his gaze, a straitjacket. Which explains why the other board members ‘invited’ into this secret space nervously wander around making light of the doctor’s ‘collections’, desperately trying to forget the sensation that they’re ants inside the pit of an antlion._

_Bruce gives one of his plastic smiles. “I’m afraid I have very little taste in these matters, Dr. Arkham”_

_"In both art and psychology?”_

_Bruce doesn’t answer. Instead, he sweeps a gaze around the area. Most are framed drawings and paintings, although there are a few sculptures of clay and even something like play-dough. Understandable since any hard or pointed materials in the asylum are liable to end up in someone’s soft places. The drawings and paintings would have been done via vinyl tubes filled with paint or ink._

_"I’m sure that art therapy is a very effective method but I have to admit, I find the ‘act’ of collecting them… rather morbid.”_

_An image of his cave with the monstrous card and increasing memorabilia flashes a bit of guilt in Bruce’s mind. Unaware of it, Jeremiah Arkham smiles._

_"These works establish a unique connection to my patients, I feel. These are their innermost selves expressed in most beautiful yet harmless ways. And, Mr. Wayne, I must admit that I was rather surprised to see you gravitate to this piece immediately. Something in it, it speaks to you, perhaps?”_

_“I’m not sure I feel comfortable with the work of the criminally insane speaking to me, doctor.”_

_Jeremiah Arkham delicately frowns at the dull crudity of Gotham’s socialites. Bruce hopes that will drive him off but to his private dismay, the doctor turns his gaze back to the frame in front of them. Encased in it is an ink drawing of black, red and green over a large sketch paper. It is obviously in a place of honor as it is the only piece that has a whole wall to itself._

_At a first glance, it is a mass of scribbles that look like it was done by an angry child. Then certain lines pulsate into shapes – humanoid and beast-like figures, Whirling, writing, dancing, strangling, kissing, stepping on, over, tearing into each other._

_“Perhaps I blasphemy, but I fancy it even reminds me a bit of “Guernica”, or Hieronymus Bosch," murmurs Jeremiah Arkham, “and if you step back…”_

_This he does. Bruce follows without thinking. The previously defined shapes mingle in a different way and seem to ‘float’ together like a hologram - into a larger, simpler form. Sharp ends curving upwards, like a crescent moon made of wires lying on its side, its center dip sharp._

_Jeremiah Arkham speaks, too near Bruce’s ear for his liking, “I rather feel I got two for the price of one on this.”_

_“Pardon?”_

_“Well, something of the artist and also the one who brought him in here. Like that picture of a lady and a crone – a smile or a bat?”_

_Bruce turns sharply. “You mean…? This is…?”_

_“Yes, the one that calls himself the Joker. Whatever he is, you must admit that he has talent.”_

_“He – allowed you to display his – work – like this?” Bruce catches himself, “I mean, I heard things about that madman…”_

_Jeremiah Arkham shrugs, although he momentarily scrunches up his brows at the word ‘allowed’. “The man has exhibitionist tendencies, after all. I hold out some hope that such form of expression signifies that he is making some progress towards recovery. Besides, all of these works will be returned to their originators should they desire it so. And ‘display’ is rather an exaggeration, Mr. Wayne. For these works are only contained here. No photos or copies allowed. The few eyes that have seen them will only have their memories to carry outside.”_

_Jeremiah Arkham’s words will turn out to be untrue. But only in hindsight. And through no fault of his own except perhaps of hubris. For a month later, the artist of the ink drawing would escape the asylum, the first of his many, many future escapades. Then an asylum security guard, upon being fired due some offense, will pinch the said drawing in place of the retirement pension he’d never get. Knowing there’s a market for such, he’ll put the drawing up for an online auction. It’d soon find a purchaser and be mailed off. Upon finding this, the artist of the work will pay the guard a visit._

_The digital copy of the drawing as well as the fate of the guard would circulate for a while, keeping the public horrified and fascinated in equal measure. No-one except the elusive purchaser would lay eyes upon the actual drawing for years afterwards._

 

* * *

 

Presently, Batman simply said, “I recognize it.”

Gordon intervened. “Is that also part of the… ‘script’, as you put it?”

Agent Tanith tilted her head. “I dare say it isn’t. I think it was ‘tacked on’ - sort of like presenting credentials saying ‘Yep, I’m the real thing, you’d better pay attention.’”

“To what, agent?” 

Agent turned again to the immobile figure. “That is the question. We were wondering if you could help with that. But first, I’d better give you some backstory. That really is my role in this freak’s scenario - the narrator, the Greek chorus.”

Then the burnt woman started her tale.

 

* * *

 

  

“And the tale starts in a small town of Liam, Louisiana.”

Barbara spoke, her inner librarian overtaking the Oracle persona. When Tim had returned to the new headquarters in downtown, both had called out, ‘Have I got a story for you –.’

In the end, they’d decided to flip for it. (”A la Two-Face,” was Tim’s wry commentary, followed by Barbara’s more cautious, “Wherever he is right now.”)

Bruce had already briefed both Alfred and Barbara through comm and sent the scans of the booklet. Barbara was doing her own research on the Director cases when Tim had returned. Now she brought up multiple screens as she wove together the information she’d managed to mine.

“Years ago, the Liam Police Department received an anonymous package and inside was a hand-made booklet filled with collages – “

Barbara brought up the images as she spoke (Tim wondered if the agents that Bruce had met actually gave away all that data or if Barbara had just hacked into the FBI database. He decided not to ask.).

Tim leaned closer. There was a sheet with various letters torn from some obscure publications spelling out _Dramatis Personae_ and under that heading, a stylized alphabet ‘C’ made up of small, cut-up squares and a relatively simpler ‘K’ drawn in something like soot or pastel. The rest of the sheets were even more incomprehensible mixture of old document scraps, a skull-shaped button, mud and plant samples, locks of hair and cheap, childlike trinkets - and on the last pages, what looked like a blood blotch and another lock of hair with an illustration of a writhing serpent between them. On the back of that page was an old newspaper cutting.

Barbara continued, “The department chucked it up to someone playing a prank. But this booklet caught the interest of a rookie detective who began to study its contents in earnest. Huh, you know Tim, this page reminds me of… ”

Barbara stopped short. It annoyed Tim that she felt the need to. Which was why he stepped forward to point at the collage himself and declared. “Yeah, thought that too, Babs. Kinda like that Crane case I worked on. This ‘C’, it’s made up of cut pieces of a photograph - a face – here’s an eye, an ear, a piece of mouth… By the looks of it – oh, it’s - “

“Yes, a child, Master Timothy.”

Barbara brought up a couple of news articles: “Missing Child: Kelsey McNab.” “The number of missing children in the parish for the last 3 years staggering… Could Kelsey McNab have been the first of a series?” Pictures of a blond, smiling child of about ten adorned the articles.

Barbara spoke, “So, this rookie detective figures that somehow, this booklet may be pointing to the missing children’s case. Soon enough, she is led to William Bledsoe, the parish sheriff.”

Barbara brought up another picture, a stout man with a receding round head dressed in a suit that was a little tight for his girth – it must’ve been taken at some official party - and Barbara blew up a part of the man’s lapel: Custom-made buttons, skull-shaped.

“In the end, the pieces were all there in the booklet – the plants and the mud samples were from a certain swamp area in the parish where the body of a child was dug up. Dental records proved it to be Kelsey McNab. And other missing children’s bodies were also found along that area, nearly mummified by the peat. One of them had a skull-shaped lapel button clutched in its fingers.”

Barbara took this moment to sip coffee poured by Alfred, who momentarily took over. “The scraps of old documents turned out to be deeds from Sheriff Bledsoe’s family property – a forgotten shack near those wetlands. The Liam Police found a secret basement that turned out to be housing a collection of missing children’s trinkets as well as locks of their hair.”

Another article was brought up: “Leading community figure revealed to be a killer of children: Former Sheriff Bledsoe arrested…” “The case of Rougarou: Monster in plain sight…”

Tim frowned. “Rougarou? Loup-garou? What does a werewolf have to do with…”

“The case was nicknamed the Rougarou Murders – a monster from Cajun folklore. Aside from the ‘shape-shifter’ perspective, the sheriff apparently kept muttering that word during the interrogations, probably referring to what he thought he _became_ when he did… the killings.”

“Okay, but I still don’t get ‘C’. I mean, ‘K’ is obviously Kelsey…”

“Ah, a little twist there. You see, ‘C’ turned out to stand for ‘Charlie' in 'Charlie Brown’, which was a nickname for Bledsoe made by his fiancee at the time – Karen McNab, a single mother of Kelsey McNab.”

"Hell,” Tim muttered and Barbara gave a bitter smile.

“So yeah, ’K’ for Karen. The day Bledsoe got arrested was a day before their wedding.”

“Okay, but as bad as it was, isn’t Karen a… background character? So Kelsey’s more likely-.”

Barbara brought up another new article: “Enraged mother becomes an avenging angel: Former Sheriff Bledsoe gunned down on his way to court by Karen McNab…”

On another screen, a picture of a woman holding a gun with a face like that of a stone angel stood side by side with a picture of a cadaver – possibly from a coroner’s report – with a red-black blob where its head should be.

“The news headline at the time got rather carried away, it seems.”

“It was a quiet town, Alfred. Getting a bit emotional could probably be forgiven. Now here comes the creepy part…”

“You mean everything before was the _cheerful_ part?”

Barbara ignored Tim’s comment. “Turns out, ‘K’ was drawn with gunpowder. And Karen ‘gunned down’ the killer of her daughter. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? The rookie detective thought so. She did some more digging and found that Karen and Bledsoe had hooked up at a counseling center. The counselor had played a bit of a cupid between them. People at the center remembered the three of them being very close. Yet, before all this happened, the counselor had quit and left town.”

"Couldn't the detective track him down?”

“All his information had been inexplicably erased from the center’s database. And no-one could really remember anything about him – ‘Oh, he was the same as everyone else, very much your average Joe,’ kind of deal. But Karen insisted during her interrogation that she’d _met_ the counselor just before coming to court. And she couldn’t explain where and how she’d gotten hold of her Glock. She _was_ diagnosed as suffering from trauma and likely, she’d hallucinated…”

“…But, it’s also possible that this cupid counselor really did meet her, gave her a gun, and suggested that she blow Bledsoe’s head off? So what happened to Karen?”

“She was being held in the police department after she shot Bledsoe. She was found dead next morning in her cell. Cyanide poisoning. Ruled as a suicide. Although they never found out how she could’ve smuggled in a cyanide pill or when she'd ingested it with the guards watching.”

Tim scratched his cheek. “And the mystery booklet never made the news?”

“No, not even when the second one arrived months later. Specifically addressed to the detective this time. The Liam Police Department kept a pretty tight lid on the whole thing.”

“It seems that the FBI also follows their example, Master Tim.”

“Well, I mean, it wouldn’t do to advertise that the law had basically played a cat’s paw to some… some… crazy _playwright_ …”

Tim threw one hand up. “I guess no points for guessing that the dogged rookie detective’s name was Melinda Tanith. So she’s moved on since. And this _Dramatis Personae_ followed her all the way up to the Bureau. Wonder why Liam was chosen in the first place?”

“Actually, Agent Tanith found that several of these booklets were sent to other police departments in other states as well. It seems that then-Detective Tanith was the only one who managed to follow through all the way. You can say that the first booklets were a sort of a resume.”

“So in the case that started it all, we can assume that this elusive counselor was the… Director?”

“Or, as the agent puts it, could’ve been one of his ‘crew’. She believes that the Director operates his own team. In all the Director-related cases, the roles like that of the ‘counselor’ were always ‘played’ by different men and women. Some of them the agent managed to apprehend. But they all either committed suicide or ended up in mental institutions after suffering some sort of sudden psychosis.”

“Hmm, maybe this Director is a hypnotist? Sort of like Tetch?”

“That definitely is among the profile the agents gave to us. The profile overall is that of a skilled conman – a pickup artist, someone pretending to be a psychic, or a cult leader.”

“So this guy –or a woman or an organization – randomly chooses people to star in their ‘drama’. Then sends the ‘script’ to the hand-picked law enforcement to follow through.”

“Not ‘random’, Tim. The _Dramatis Personae_ – or Director’s victims as the agents call them - all turned out to be criminals in the end. Which is why the profile also includes -”

“Whoa, hey, what about Karen McNab? She was an obvious innocent…”

Tim looked at the two impassive faces staring back at him. Tim clucked his tongue. “I forgot. We haven’t gone over all the pages in that first booklet, have we? The last page with the red splotch and the snake.”

Alfred cleared his throat. “The snake, Master Tim, possibly represented a book called “The Cosmic Serpent” – written by an anthropologist that draws connection between biology and shamanism. But, what may be interesting is the full subheading – “DNA and the Origins of Knowledge.””

“The red splotch was blood,” Barbara picked up, “stuck on laminated surface, easy for DNA testing. It was Karen’s. The lock of hair turned out to be Kelsey’s. The testing proved that they had zero biological relation.”

“And the news article scrap…”

“It was about the murder of a woman named Linda Nesbit, 9 years before the whole thing…”

The full article was brought up on the screen: “On Monday, Linda Nesbit was found stabbed to death on her living room. Suspect is her child’s nanny, Karen Morrow. Morrow is also suspected to have kidnapped the Nesbit child…”

Barbara turned to Tim. “Long story short: Karen McNab was Karen Morrow. Kelsey was the kidnapped baby of Linda Nesbit. Karen had killed her employer Linda to steal her child. Then she'd changed her identity and that of the child's - as a single mother and her daughter living in the town of Liam.”

 

* * *

  

“Murderers,”

As Agent Tanith spoke, both Gordon and Agent Lopez looked at Batman. The looming figure didn’t react. A stone gargoyle with eyes of reflected light.

Agent Tanith's smile contorted her face.

“The Director’s _Dramatis Persona_ have all been murderers.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Cosmic Serpent: DNA and the Origins of Knowledge" is an actual book written by Jeremy Narby. I'm afraid I haven't actually read it. The cover and the subject matter, however, seemed fitting and intriguing. 
> 
> Town of Liam, however, is fictional.


	3. Act 1-3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Changed rating 
> 
> A forewarning that the Joker may waltz in a bit later into the story - he'll be referenced a whole lot before his actual entrance.

_“BAT, BAT, BAT, BAT-MAN, BATS….”_

_The crows’ announcement rises to a crescendo reverberating all around the old church. Tim flinches. He hates that that is his first reaction. Like a boy caught outside his room past his curfew. His second is trying to hide the weight of fluttering heat in his hands. He hates that as well._

_Tim forces himself to turn around slowly. The figure on the other side of the tower looks like it has always been there. Built along with the old stones and the monstrous brass bells and brought to life by the cacophony of the winged residents._

_Tim rehearses several sentences and settles for: “What are you doing here?”_

_Before he has a chance to hate that too, Batman answers, “Checking up on the crows.”_

_Tim is caught off-guard and the only reaction he can manage is, “Oh.”_

_The welcome or the warning had died down to usual caws. They treat the Dark Knight with something like wary respect. Yet Tim’s hands are still full with raucous cries and shivering feathers so puffed to the point of bursting. This one is only a fledgling, after all._

_Tim speaks again, doubt dripping all over, “_ Really? _I never -“_

_“I find that it’s – safer if the crows are kept healthy. Otherwise, it - sets_ him _off.”_

_Tim had heard a story about a government employee who attempted to clear the crows off the building by shooting at them. Apparently the man wouldn’t be able to shoot at anything anymore. In fact, he wouldn’t be able to do much of anything. He wasn’t dead. But not, people say, for lack of wishing to be._

_Tim had passed it off as another rumor regarding the usual Rogues Gallery._

_Batman speaks again. “I don’t do it as often as I used to. I felt I’ve been – remiss.”_

_The old church at the edge of downtown is something of a historic piece – although a stern, stark one with its cold, unadorned stone walls. Its pride is a gothic bell tower that only comes up short of the Gotham Clock Tower (Tim wonders how the crows ever adapted to that rolling thunder of brass that sounds like the end of days.). It was left in ruins for years, except when the Scarecrow had briefly used it at the beginning of his criminal career. During the city reconstruction, the mayor had resurrected the church. Now the bells toll in time and services are held on special occasions, attracting a certain number of people with particular tastes. Yet the tower itself remains home to crows even when their master had long abandoned his old abode._

_The city workers and a few volunteers that run the church have developed a unique schedule: Whenever the crows’ master stays in Arkham is a time for the tower maintenance. For the crows then spend most of their time on the asylum grounds. Even then, the workers are careful not to disturb the nests. For they too, had heard stories. Their complaints are boastful. In a way one is just a little proud of a family ghost or a buccaneer ancestor._

_The fledgling flaps. Tim carefully rubs at the wound on its chest. He had just cleaned the blood. He now applies some antiseptic._

_“A kite got at it, looks like.”_

_It sounds as if he’s trying to explain away his presence. He is a little surprised to see Bruce nod._

_“It’s good that they’ve taken to you. It’s always a struggle if I need to do something like that.”_

_Tim almost smiles. And it’s almost like they’re back on familiar grounds. Almost like they haven’t been walking on thin ice around each other for the past few days._

_Yet it is one of Crane’s crows that Tim is holding. It is because of Crane that Tim is here -_

_“He_ does _go away from the city sometimes.” Bruce’s words only cement the current reality._

_Tim just nods. After a moment, he says, “I suppose I can do this from now on. One load off of you.”_

_Tim wonders if he imagines Bruce hesitating, trying to make an argument. In the end, Bruce straightens up, the cowl bobbing a little in the process. Tim doesn’t know if he should count it as a nod._

_Several crows rise up and circle around the Batman as he turns and leaves._

_Tim watches until the figure is a distant spot and the crows return to their nests. The fledgling pecks at his gloved fingers, pulling his attention back. Tim looks into the milky blue eyes._

_“Not at all like your master, are you?”_

_Nothing like that electric blue._

_Tim puts the bird back on one of the high wooden frames where it comfortably settles and squeaks._

_“BOY, CHILD, CHILD.”_

_“Never mind. You do take after him.”_

_Tim steps off the tower and leaves the chanting choir behind._

_“BOY, BOY, BOY WONDER, CHILD, CHILD.”_

* * *

 

**Act 1-3.**  
  


"What is this crime I am planning, O Krishna?”

**Mahabharata (Attributed to Vyasa)**

 

* * *

 

 

Tim rubbed his chin.

“So the feds are willing to divulge this much information? When they were keeping the Director cases under wraps this whole time?”

“Oh, my da – the commissioner heard the reason for that. The higher-ups were strongly against it but Agent Tanith insisted. In the end, they acceded on the condition that none of this would get outside the ‘interested party’. Otherwise, the FBI will hold the commissioner and the whole GCPD responsible.”

“So the FBI is basically holding Gotham’s Finest a hostage over this.”

One side of Barbara’s mouth quirked up. “Yeah, well, let’s make sure we don’t give them any excuse.”

She brought up the scanned pages of the _Dramatis Personae_.

After the Bat Signal and the Joker Card, there was a blank page followed by a collage made up of what appeared to be – Tim squinted – dried flower petals or leaves forming landscapes and figures. Details were painted with what appeared to be a Chinese calligraphy brush dipped in black ink. The pattern of blank page facing such a collage continued for the next 16 pages. Tim narrowed his eyes.

“Those papers… they seem to have texture to them, all those ridges and scratches…”

“They’re all hand-made. According to the agents, they always are. Although that always led nowhere. We’ll do a more thorough research once Bruce returns with the actual booklet. For now, eight panels of these collages. I think they’re meant to convey a story - like newspaper comic book strips.”

“That looks like a figure of a boy walking along a hill or a mountainside? On the third panel… some kind of cattle, sheep? No, those are horns. A goat? A bull? Could the boy be a shepherd?”

“It seems to illustrate the journey of a shepherd boy looking for his lost cattle, and finding it, coming home with it. Rather unexpectedly pastoral.”

“I think you’re right, Alfred, but that last panel –“

Tim pointed at the last panel. It was an empty circle. Upon closer inspection, the circle had what appeared to be pieces of eggshells stuck on it like mosaic tiles. And the circle frame itself was an inked image of a serpent -

“ – eating its own tail,” Barbara added, “possibly the ouroboros symbol, symbolizing the cyclical nature of… everything. And then those words.”

Barbara pointed at the upper right corners of the collage pages. Each page had a word stamped over that area:

**_me / one / us / next. / no / use / me / next._ **

“And a sentence on the final circle panel.”

Indeed, underneath the ouroboros symbol were the words:

**_incubus in a lab._ **

They looked at the images in silence for a moment. Tim threw up his hands.

“Okay, I admit it now. Nygma _does_ play fair. And what the hell – sorry Alfred – are those blank pages for? Is that usual?”

“Apparently not. But the FBI figured that one out. The blank pages actually have latent images printed on them, so that they only come up when you look through a polarizer – sort of like those security printing for banknotes or ID cards.”

Barbara brought up the digitized versions of the hidden images.

“They’re _negative_ images of the collages they’re facing, you see.”

Tim tilted his head. “Positive and negative, Mirror images, opposites… Okay, _this_ one, I call a bit heavy-handed. Considering what people say about the Batman and the Joker – um, I mean, what the Joker likes to say – you know – “

“Understood, Tim. Thought the same thing. So stop digging yourself into a hole.”

Tim was relieved to see Barbara smile at him, if not a trifle embarrassed. It amazed Tim how Barbara kept cool regarding anything related to the Joker. _It_ had happened before he became Robin. Tim always felt some guilt about his secondhand knowledge and had walked on eggshells when talking about the Joker in front of Barbara during his early days. Of course, Barbara had been kind about that. Which made Tim feel even more guilt.

Barbara frowned. “Wonder if the Director knows we’ve been having a drought of super villains these past days. How long has it been since we’ve last seen the Joker?”

“Which reminds me – “  

Tim whipped up his own Joker card. He felt a little pressured with the way the others’ attention shifted.

“Babs, can we get some trace evidence from this? It might be nothing but… it was among Dr. McGuire’s possession.”

“Is that – I didn’t think _he_ was related to tonight’s poisoning-“

Tim hastily shook his head at Barbara.

“This actually doesn’t have anything to do with that. I just want to make sure why the doctor had it. As for the Arkham poisoning, I thought my story was pretty bizarre but now it feels utterly prosaic...” 

* * *

 

 

<From Special Agent Melinda Tanith’s personal records on the _Dramatis Personae_ cases:

_“… The subject has been referred to in various ways by both their accomplices (aka ‘crew’) and victims. In the rare latter cases, any surviving victims had fallen into clinically diagnosable psychosis and no concrete statements were possible…… I can’t exactly recall when the title of ‘the Director’ stuck. It could have been the mass suicide case of a cult community located on the outskirts of Melsa City, New Jersey._

_The case happened about a year before the first_ Dramatis Personae _. It seems to mark the beginnings of the Director’s career …… The cult members had committed a series of killings at the behest of its leader for years until one day, they were all found dead in their communal building. The only survivor was their youngest member – a teenage girl. Her last statement before being hospitalized described a ‘wandering prophet’ who often came to visit, leaving a series of ‘mystical texts’ that were collages of antique books ……. The girl could not identify the ‘prophet’ as either male or female for the figure always wore a hood and had a sort of neutral, husky voice. She did remember the prophet’s right index finger always moving in a peculiar way when speaking (Note. Could this be a condition or a hypnotic action?) ……. The cult members had taken to calling this prophet ‘the one who offers directions.’” >_

 

* * *

 

Over the years, Bruce had grown increasingly suspicious of the pronoun ‘I’.

Whenever he saw that one slender letter, he imagined a screen seen from the side, filtering words to suit one’s fancies. Whittling the world into pieces that could be rearranged to fit one’s view.

The ‘I’ was just too full of a _person_ to allow room for anything else.

But perhaps this was a cowardly view. _It was done_ rather than _I did it._ Shifting responsibility to circumstances. Letting control seep through one’s fingers like dust mote.

_“Well, that is what control is_ for, _slipping through one’s fingers. So much fairy gold.”_

_His_ voice sounded somewhere in the back of Bruce’s head (or cowl, he mused) and he sloped his back a little. It was a habit he took up a few years back. Before, he would try to vanish the voice by either ignoring it or pummeling it inside his head in the hope that it stayed down.

Both methods worked just about as well as when dealing with the actual owner of that voice.

Now he just let the voice be felt along the back of his skull, along his spine. Imagining the letters taking physical form and tumbling down, all the sharp edges and ends pricking where they will. Such an absurd picture gave him a certain objective distance – as if he were looking down at himself from somewhere else, juggling those laughing alphabets over his back.

He wasn’t sure if this made anything _better._ But it was at least something _different._

Bruce noted that Agent’s Tanith earlier notes on the Director were more disjointed and littered with ‘I’s.

Gradually, the notes took forms of prose. The writer now aware that other eyes may be skimming over them. The shift in form eliminated most of the ‘I’s, the person disappearing to be replaced by an impassive act of observation. It made the occasional breaks into the pronoun all the more jarring, bits of a person breaking out like boils.

The rooftop meeting had ended just before. But instead of returning immediately, Bruce was now leaning on one of the pipes that lined the space between the GCPD roof and the lower floor.

Bruce looked to the portable screen in front him.

The video feed was connected to a hidden cam inside the building. There were times when Gordon told him that if he found any Bat-branded equipment anywhere within _his_ premises, then that would be _it._

Then there was that time when a half-smoked cigarette was found on Gordon’s desk. End tipped with red lipstick.

Eventually, a less than scrupulous cleaning help was found to have been pinching things from everyone’s desks. The woman always had red lipstick on. And that was that.

Perhaps Bruce was merely constructing the events in retrospect, just as Agent Tanith had admitted regarding the Director’s namesake. Still, Bruce fancied that _that_ was the moment when the animosity regarding Batman’s surveillance had stopped. Because by that point, the fear of sheer _possibility_ had clouded over the whole GCPD.

For the sake of GCPD’s honor as well as playing it safe, Bruce didn’t _always_ keep tabs on GCPD office – only at certain times and each time, the equipment was placed at different locations of the office.

And no, none of them were marked with Bat-brands.

Slightly blurred image and static voice of Agent Lopez flowed through the screen’s neon-blue glow.

“I appreciate this, commissioner. There were some things I wanted to clarify –“

Bruce had learned to watch for that moment just after any ‘official’ meetings. Be they the ones held inside the GCPD office, some rundown storage units along the Narrows, or the top floor of some high-rise in the middle of downtown surrounded by bulletproof glass. It was amazing what secrets people casually divulged once the tension had bled out and thought nothing about any third pair of ears listening in.

Dick and Tim had never gotten over the uneasiness of such surveillance. Keeping tabs on gang meetings was one thing, doing so on those presumed to be on _their_ side was quite another. Jason was the only one who had displayed no compunction about it.

_“You do what’s necessary,”_ had been his reaction.

_Jason._ Again, Bruce wondered if what he’d done was right. Then again, he’d spent years wondering the same thing over every deed.

Perhaps nothing right or better. Perhaps all he could settle for was something different.

For now, he forced himself to concentrate on the conversation between two men inside the commissioner’s office.

“If the Newark office gives you trouble over any jurisdiction issue, just pass it over to us, commissioner. Our team is given some independence regarding the Director cases.”

“The Pulp Investigative Team, so I heard.”

Agent Lopez gave a laugh.

“I see you’re informed. Then you’d know we’re bit of a pariah in the bureau – for the types of crime we deal with and for the methods we employ. Yet our team’s arrest record is one of the highest and the powers that be cannot ignore that either.”

The screen was too small to recognize minuscule facial muscles. Bruce was still sure that the agent was somewhat tense.

“Commissioner Gordon, there are things I feel that you should know. I don’t intend to go behind my partner’s back. I doubt Mel cares if anyone says anything about her at this point.”

Bruce knew that Agent Tanith was waiting alone in the car outside the GCPD. Indeed, Agent Lopez had not kept this ‘extra’ meeting a secret from his partner. Not that she seemed to care. The woman had that air of willful indifference, as if the hardened scars were in her mind as well as outside.

_You’re the one to talk._

“Sometimes it doesn’t occur to her to share certain types of information.”

“Information that you feel differently about.”

Agent Lopez gave a shrug that suddenly made him look very young.

“She wouldn’t say it, but I’m sure she feels that this particular _Dramatis Personae_ is different from others. Remember, the Director started this _Dramatis Personae_ business a couple of years after the purchase of _that_ drawing by the Joker.”

“The Batman and the Joker had… _influence_ in the makings of the Director, is that what you’re saying?”

“That is what Mel – Agent Tanith believes. See, if the Director just wanted attention, he’d have sent those booklets over to the media. Instead, he looked for a particular – “

“Playmate?”

“Opponent. The profile suggests the Director may have wanted to form a certain –  antagonistic relationship similar to that of the Batman and the Joker.”

“Yet the Director doesn’t seem to be satisfied with that. It seems to me that the Director’s – _challenging_ both of them right now.”

“The Director cases have been escalating for the past years. Larger names and larger scale – you’ll find them all in the profile we’ve constructed.“

Agent Lopez hesitated before continuing.

“We believe there had been a… trigger for such changes.”

“A trigger.”

“Three years ago – when Mel first became an agent, there had been a lull in _the Dramatis Personae._ For almost a full year. She almost believed it to be the end. Then the booklet was delivered to her LA office. After such a respite, something must’ve snapped in her. She took everything to her direct superior and told him everything. He could fire her if he thought her a raving lunatic but damned if she was going to continue with this game of a madman.”

“And then?”

Agent Lopez sighed. Gordon would have offered him a smoke if he’d figured him a smoking man.

“Three months later, Agent Tanith and a few other agents got called out. It turned out to be a bogus call. They got back to a burning office. It was due to a liquid explosive going from within the office. Agent Tanith managed to drag her superior out – he was practically a live torch. Her burns are from that time.”

Gordon grimaced in sympathy.

“While investigating the wreckage, the agents found a booklet – placed on where Mel’s – Agent’s Tanith’s - desk would’ve been. The content consisted of torn photographs of faces rearranged to make collages. They were photos of three agents that got killed in the explosion. Two of them were visiting agents – apparently Mel’s superior had called them in that day.”

The agent hesitated before speaking.

“Mel’s superior – Agent Mahon - and the two visiting agents – a few years back, the three of them were running FBI informants among the gangs in Chicago. Among those informants was a crime boss of a major gang named Bobby Malory. There were allegations that those agents backed Malory a bit too much – to the point where it was rumored that they were under the pay of the gangster and were complicit in Malory’s murders of his rival gangs.”

Agent Lopez took a breath.

“At the end of the booklet was a handwritten confession by Agent Mahon admitting to all those accusations. In it were detailed descriptions of payments from Malory to them and of the murders of Malory’s rivals – including their families, even children. It ended with the statement that he’d been plagued by guilt all these years but now he had been ‘directed’ to make a restitution along with his accomplices.”

Gordon fiddled with a cigarette, but didn’t actually light it.

“So Agent Mahon called his past comrades on some pretense, possibly made the bogus call himself, sent away everyone else and… made the building explode.”

“Or the Director fabricated the whole event to make it _look_ so. A written confession could be forged.  You must understand, commissioner, there was a thorough internal investigation and the three of them were cleared of all charges.”

“A family tends to look after its own. Especially since the ‘victims’ were gangs and their families…”

A flash of anger shot from Agent Lopez’s brown eyes.

“If it comes to the history of ‘questionable’ conducts among the law enforcement, I’m sure Gotham’s Finest has one or two things to teach us.”

Gordon brought up his hands.

“I apologize, agent. I didn’t mean to offend.”

Agent Lopez was already looking embarrassed at his own outburst.

“No, commissioner. That was out of line. The apology is all mine. But… whether Agent Mahon’s confession was real or not, it’s likely that the Director had somehow manipulated him like the others. ”

“All that to ‘punish’ Agent Tanith for refusing to play her part and to warn her of consequences – that the ‘scripts’ would strike closer to her. Is it possible that the Director orchestrated Agent Mahon to be Agent Tanith’s superior in the first place for that purpose?

“Mel suspects it. I doubt the Director’s machinations would reach that far but it _was_ a hell of a coincidence. Since then, Mel had managed to transfer to the NY office and she too was… changed. Well, considering everything, you could probably guess how others see her.”

_Marked._ Bruce thought.

“Yet she has you, Agent Lopez”

Although the screen couldn’t have picked it up, Bruce figured the man had blushed.

“I… well, I also come from the Liam Police Department. She’d been my senior during her last days. She was a legend in a small town such as ours.”

Agent Lopez straightened. The small-town rookie that’d been there momentarily giving way to that granite figure of a model agent.

“With all that in mind, we believe that all the previous _Dramatis Personae_ for the last few years have been rehearsals leading up to _this_. In fact, this may be the Director’s endgame, and perhaps a real chance to finally catch him – or her, them. I wanted to let you know just how dedicated Mel – Agent Tanith is to this case and what _measures_ she’d be willing to take.”

Gordon absently took the unlit cigarette to his mouth.                                                                  

“Agent Tanith – _she_ believes that all of _Dramatis Personae_ are murderers? I noticed the Director’s profile included the vigilante aspect - ”

“Like I said, the _Dramatis Personae_ include the ones that were only _suspected_. The term ‘murderer’ is very subjective when it comes to someone like the Director. We’re well aware of the Batman’s reputation for not killing – “

Both Gordon and Bruce were well aware that there were many who doubted the truth of that. After all, it was difficult to produce evidence for _not_ killing anybody.

That doubt had spiked up recently. _The Bat Sickness_ -

“ – and you must realize that some think that by letting… the Joker live, the Batman is just as responsible for his numerous murders.”

Bruce remembered the last words of Agent Tanith at the end of the rooftop meeting.

_“So how do we contact the other – your partner in crime?_ _Don’t you have a way to do that? Like attracting sharks with blood in the water?_

Agent Lopez was speaking again.

“The vigilante angle is not the point. The Director doesn’t care about the collateral the way a hunter shooting for a man-eating tiger doesn’t care about a hare killed by a stray bullet. It’s all about the script.”

Gordon seemed to take a whiff of the imaginary smoke, and spoke.

“I appreciate your explanation, agent. But why not say all this during the rooftop meeting?”

The agent shifted a little.

“As I said, Agent Tanith wouldn’t be bothered but – it’s still a personal story and – I wanted to tell it to a _person._ ”

Gordon didn’t reply. It caused the agent to speak again, wanting to fill the void.

“Our team – we had dealings with our share of costumed criminals and so-called vigilantes aside from the Director. We're not novices in that area. But – what I’ve just met on this rooftop – “ the agent gave a weak laugh, “after _that_ , I admit that I do not look forward to ever meeting the _other_ one.”

With that, the agent excused himself and left.

Gordon never lit the cigarette, choosing to return it to the case. At the same time, Bruce rose from his perch, disconnected the cam, and began organizing what he’d learned.

_“To a person.”_

Bruce wondered if there ever was a time when he’d have been bothered by that.

Bruce had an idea that Agent Tanith had already figured out certain aspects about the booklet that she wasn’t sharing. If she _was_ blaming the Batman and the Joker for ‘inspiring’ her nemesis, she likely didn’t care what happened to them via the Director’s script, as long as she found _use_ for them. Bruce inferred that was probably what Agent Lopez hoped to communicate, however obliquely. A plea and a warning.

He found himself wondering about that detective in the Liam Police Department before the booklet came into her life. For that was obviously what Agent Lopez was seeing in his partner even now. If not for the turn of events…

_"What ifs, what ifs. Can_ _what if win over what_ is _?"_

Bruce let the words tumble down his body again. Edges like knives. Like nails. Imagined blood running down his back.

Blood in the water. Attracting a great white.

_"Know that I've got your back, Bats."_

Hidden even from moonlight, the dark figure flew off the GCPD building.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the town of Melsa is fictional. 
> 
> The kite that injured one of Crane's crows, I'm talking about the bird, not the aircraft. :) 
> 
> I'm not sure if I should just change the relationship tag regarding Tim so that it's apparent - I feel it's not that much of a surprise at this point.


	4. Act 1-4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason has some scenes here (not a lot - just in Tim's flashback) and I'm kind of nervous about how I handled his characterization. 
> 
> Also, there's a reference to a plot element in "Batman: Europa".
> 
> Lot of things happened before the events in Chapter 1 that have consequences later on so there 'will' be a lot of flashbacks. Hopefully I manage to make them not so confusing. 
> 
> ....and I already regret starting each chapter with a quote.

_< Paris, five months ago.>_

 

_“Ah, the renowned Monsieur Malone.”_

_A hand parted the curtain of absinthe – scented haze. The hand was almost invisible, so that numerous golden rings that adorned it seemed to float by themselves._

_Matches Malone took the proffered hand._

_He could hardly feel any flesh. Even the palm was covered by some intricate golden carving that was somehow tied or grafted onto the skin._

_The man was called Bonnot de l’Or. Bonnot the Golden. Some said that Bonnot wasn’t really a man but an automaton wrought of gold – attractive and boisterous on the outside, all cold clockwork on the inside. Matches Malone’s mind conjured up an image of antique gears turning and pumping this golden hand that held his._

_Matches Malone was allowed such whimsical thoughts._

_Deep inside him, however, the Bat was rifling through his database, much like an automaton himself. Although an automaton would be free of the irritation that plagued the Bat._

_Bonnot de l’Or - first name unknown - had dropped onto the Parisian underground out of nowhere. He’d pulled in rag-tags at first, moving onto lesser gangs. By the time the old Paris milieu had taken notice of Bonnot and his ‘coalition’, it was too late. The mangy dogs had grown into a wolf pack, going for the throats of the established powers._

_Yet the man himself remained an unknown, seemingly possessing no past. If he_ was _an automaton, whether he was self-made or crafted by another remained a question. The air of mystery added to the man’s growing legend._

_Contrary to popular belief, Batman wasn’t fond of mysteries. It grated on him like a pebble loose inside his boot._

_Of course, aside from those unanswered questions, there was yet a bigger reason that the golden man had earned Batman’s attention._

_Malone spoke._

_“Hardly renowned.”_

_The other man laughed._

_“Humility, been a while since I saw that.”_

_The golden hand gestured to the opposite seat._

_“Your reputation precedes you. Gotham’s finest firesmith. We’ll get along splendidly. Fire and gold, they go well together.”_

_Malone made a show of looking around as he sat. It was as if one had stepped into some past-century cabaret. A large stage dominated half of the cavernous place, lavishly dressed dancers (somehow managing to show skin through all the laces) flocking it. Yet only the stage was brightly lit. The rest of the space remained dim, the thick tobacco smoke and the stage mist filtering colored lights to render all figures into rough pastel sketches._

_There was a chandelier (“Lit with actual candles,” Bonnot supplied), but the ceiling was dizzyingly high that light from it dissipated before reaching down. So the chandelier shone like a distant star, stuck amongst old arches._

_“Nice place you got here,” said Malone, deftly moving his matchstick from one corner of his mouth to the other,_ _“I understand that it looked a little different before.”_

_“Oh?”_

_There was a flash as the Parisian gang grinned. Gold tooth, Malone noted._

_“I’m not the one to beat around the bush, Mr. Bonnot. Excuse my pronunciation – rather, my mispronunciation – but this is it, isn’t it? What used to be the gathering hole for the so-called ‘Le Cirque des Rois des Clowns’.”_

_An even larger grin greeted the Gothamite._

_“My reputation is nothing compared to how yours stands now in Gotham, Mr. Bonnot. My associates are very interested to know whether the rumor is true.”_

_“And what is this rumor that spreads all the way to Gotham, monsieur?”_

_“That you killed the Joker.”_

 

 

* * *

 

**Act 1-4  
**

 

_"You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others…”_

**_Robert Louis Stevenson._ _Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_**

 

* * *

 

_< From the recorded confession of Dr. Jared Singh, psychiatrist at Arkham>_

_“….Yes, I received the specimen from Dr. Isley a week ago. No, not at Arkham, it’s not allowed. It was delivered to my apartment. No, I’m not in the ‘habit’ of sharing my home address with my patients. I’m a registered doctor, it’s easy to find my information. Yes, I tested it beforehand and I swear it wasn’t toxic then. But knowing the nature of Dr. Isley’s creations, the toxin was its defense mechanism being triggered… It started wilting a few days ago and well, it was in need of transplanting. So I planted the flowers on the Cook’s – Ms. Hun’s field. It was a temporary measure until I came up with a more suitable environment. I was going to dig it back out tomorrow! I never thought -. “_

 

* * *

 

“… that a new Arkham staff panicked upon spotting a few aphids on the vegetables and sprayed the whole plot with insecticide. Usually Ms. Hun is adamant about any use of chemicals but this newbie took the matter into his own hands. Although Singh did come in to check, he never seriously suspected his flower would be the cause. Then he happened to overhear this newbie – who was frantic with worry for a good reason - talking to a staff about what he did. That was when Singh rushed to the back garden.”

“So… Ivy’s ‘gift flower’ developed toxin as a defensive reaction to the insecticide, which seeped into all the plants nearby, including the vegetables that got in tonight’s stew.”

“And that toxin had blotted out the chemical traces of the insecticide itself. If not for Ivy’s plant, we’d have a simpler, less dire case of insecticide poisoning.”

Barbara sighed.

“I guess the relationship between Ivy and Dr. Singh went beyond merely ‘her not minding him’. So according to Dr. Singh, all this was just an unfortunate accident?”

Tim rubbed his chin.

“You know, I _believe_ him. If Singh had waxed poetic about some romance between the two of them, I’d have thought him either an accomplice or a fall guy but Singh didn’t seem deluded about any sort of ‘affair’ between them. Singh isn’t a people person either and apparently the two had bonded over their mutual interest, talked a lot about Isley’s ‘babies’.”

Tim produced a paper for Barbara and Alfred to look over.

“This is the copy of the letter from Ivy that arrived along with the flower. Not really romantic stuff.”

They both studied the letter. Eventually, Alfred offered a commentary.

“The letter rather reminds me of notes passed between my own mother and her neighbor Mrs. Philips, regarding their prize tulip bulbs.”

“It also confirms Singh’s statement that the last thing they talked about was a new species of flower. That really got Singh going, nearly put the officers to sleep talking about the intricacies in its chemical composition. I think he could’ve made a run for it if he weren’t so caught up with his topic.”

“You don’t suspect Ivy planned any of this?”

“Too much depending on sheer chance. And even when she actively _despised_ everything that was Arkham, she never _bothered_ to do anything like this.”

“I suppose you’re right. What a thing to happen, though. The media will have a field day. Not to mention giving fresh ammo to Ronald Marsh.”

“Yeah, Dave told me the guy was already cornering Marsellus. Not sure why he’s so eager to get his fingers into Arkham administration.”

“If it does happen, I doubt the man will emerge with all those fingers intact, Master Timothy. Despite the recent changes, Arkham remains Arkahm, with all its tooth and claw.”

“And poison, too – “

Tim trailed off. Wondering, Barbara and Alfred followed his line of gaze. Images of _Dramatis Personae_ still hovered above them.

Tim was looking at the flower collages.

“You know… the poison… containing variations of _flower_ toxins…”

There was a momentary silence. Then Barbara spoke.

“Come on, Tim. That’s quite stretching it –“

There was another pause. Until Barbara cleared her throat.

“Once Bruce is back with the original, we can run a thorough analysis on those flowers as well…”

There was a beep.

“Nearly forgot that.”

Barbara’s fingers danced over the keyboard and one of the screens flickered to a different image. Tim narrowed his eyes.

“Fingerprints?”

“From the joker card you brought from Dr. McGuire. Obviously _her_ prints were on it but these…” Barbara waved to the enlarged prints - “… are Sharon Raman’s.”

“Huh. Dr. Cheng _did_ say that Dr. McGuire had just come back from visiting her. So she got the card from Raman? But why would Raman have a joker card in the first place? This isn’t from any mass-produced card deck. It’s just like the fancy ones the Joker carries.”

Alfred interjected.

“Perhaps the Joker had given it to her a long time ago. After all, they had something resembling a history.”

Of seven months, to be exact. Tim knew the story. When others told him about it, they always prefaced it with the words ‘before your time’. He grew to resent it a little.

Years ago, Dr. Sharon Raman, already a psychologist of considerable fame in New York, had come to Gotham with her young protégé, Lillian McGuire. They soon became Arkham’s ‘star staff' under Jeremiah’s administration, referred to as regular consultants for the GCPD and, it was rumored, even Batman himself. The media dubbed them ‘Rose of Sharon and Lily of the Valley’, loosely after a quote from Song of Solomon.

But Dr. Raman’s lasting fame would be that she held the longest record of being assigned to the Clown Prince of Crime himself - for over half a year, while retaining both her life and sanity. Although Dr. Raman had remained reticent regarding any possibility of her patient’s ‘reformation’, it only served to lend her more dignity. And people tended to agree that managing to ‘convince’ the clown to stay within the asylum was a feat in and of itself.

While Bruce remained relatively silent on the subject, Dick was always happy to supply the anecdotes. He once told Tim that the Joker described sessions with Dr. Raman as:

_"Like nibbling on a meaty bone, with marrows to suck, after a con-stant diet of dollar-mart candies.”_

Tim wasn’t sure whether he’d be comfortable being on the receiving end of such a compliment.

Then one day, Dr. Raman destroyed all her records and notes on her sessions with the Joker.

Jeremiah had been furious, it was NOT within her rights to do so. Dr. Raman’s only response was a resignation letter. Not even urgings from her protégé produced any explanation.

Jeremiah, confounded as he was, tried to convince her otherwise. In the end, even he had to concede and Dr. Raman went back to New York with McGuire. The latter came back to Arkham afterwards but her mentor never set afoot in Gotham ever again. Her sessions with the Joker were the last in her career, for she gave up her profession and ended up a recluse. Until finally, she was admitted to an institution a year ago.  

Tim had never seen Sharon Raman in person except from photos in news articles – a kindly-looking woman in her fifties, with disconcertingly bright eyes like an owl’s. Once he dared to ask McGuire about her and was told that most of the visits consisted of her just holding the wizened hands of her former mentor, without any words or even awareness from the latter.

_“It’s quite remarkable how the body changes to fit the state of the mind, or absence of one.”_

Those were the only times Tim sensed tiredness from the sturdy doctor. 

No one really found out what drove the brilliant psychologist to this end. But one thing everyone agreed on: they’d never seen a human so full of fear as Raman during her last days in Arkham, short of being sprayed with Scarecrow’s gas. And that was something, coming from Arkham staff.

Strangely, the Joker seemed genuinely disappointed at Raman’s departure. And his skewed ‘respect’ for his former doctor seemed intact. Raman’s successor had been an ambitious young man who was contemptuous of his predecessor, and didn't hesitate to mock her sudden leave as ‘running away with her tail between her legs.’

_“So she holds some kind of a record with the Joker. But the fact is, she didn’t even last a year in Gotham. The old woman never had the guts for this place.”_

One day, the young doctor had failed check in. He had a good reason. The police found him on the bed of his apartment, stomach open and insides taken out as if he’d been autopsied (“Literally _gutless_ ,” as Dick described). Further examination unearthed disturbing details – the doctor had taken some sort of heavy hallucinogen and the cuts on the stomach indicated self-mutilation.

The records of his last couple of sessions with the Joker were missing.

The Joker had been in his cell at that time. So his hands were clean of the deed. Many doubted whether the same could be said of his tongue.

Presently, Tim waved at the joker cards looming over them – including the one under the heading _Dramatis Personae_.

“Do you think we should pursue this? I mean, why would this come up _now_? Coincidence?”

“Should one of us go to New York and ask Dr. Raman? Although, considering her condition, I doubt we’d get any answers… ”

“I was thinking… could Jason look in somehow? He’s in New York, after all. Perhaps he can even give us some info on those agents. Since their specialty is vigilantes, maybe they’d crossed paths before.”

Barbara drummed a finger on the keyboard. A sign that she was hesitant, rare as those times were.

“Can’t reach him, he’s still off the grid.”

“You can’t even… hack into his comm.?”

“He’s ditched it altogether. He used to text at least, but now he only leaves short messages on the Forum.”

The ‘Forum’ referred to one of the hidden sites that Barbara had put up online. Some acted as ‘baits’ to draw in criminals that operated in darknet (traffickers and buyers of pornography, drugs, weapons, and professional killers), and some operated as backup communication among the Bat family when the usual methods of communication were inconvenienced. It was heavily encrypted and even if someone were to crack it, they’d be treated with nonsense messages since all words were codes.

“I posted there three days ago hoping Jason would log in. I got a reply yesterday.”

Barbara brought up the latest post, which, in their code, simply said: ‘Still going.’

Which meant that he was alive, and that his undercover job was ongoing. No one really knew the details of Jason’s undercover job, only it had to do with the recent rise in the ‘extreme’ types of vigilantes in NY. Tim had difficulty imagining what kind vigilante Jason would describe as being ‘extreme.’ Then again, Jason didn’t really seem to consider them as vigilantes. At least, not of his ilk.

“Just another gang, sprouting turf wars like weeds,” had been Jason’s words, “but they’re not the usual mayfly kind, no amateurs.”

Barbara’s voice brought Tim out of his reverie.

“I can leave another post here, see if he replies.”

“Sure. At least we know he hasn’t completely cut off communication. Gotta go, one more outing to make tonight.”

“Meeting with your Narrows Street Irregulars?”

“Babs, do you always have to know everything?”

“Can’t help it, I have a title to live up to.”

Tim smiled and called out as he turned.

“Don’t wait up for me, Alfred. Could you please tell Bruce the same?”

 

* * *

 

As he flitted from rooftop to rooftop – the hard, reflecting surfaces changing into crumbly, rust-rough ones as he neared the Narrows – Tim thought about Jason. Jason had been the one who named Tim’s little group of back street informants. He’d been teasing, but the name had stuck.

_“Modeling yourself after the archetype of detectives, are you, kiddo?”_

It’d been about a year since Jason’s relationship with the rest of the… family had turned… milder. Prior, any contact with Jason was like confronting each other on a beach strewn with broken glass while always watching for those withdrawing waves that signaled the coming of a tidal wave. At some point, the shards’ edges had eroded off and waves rolled in quieter, stopping at gently lapping at their feet.

The change had carried over to Red Hood’s work. In a sort of vicious humor, Jason admitted to grudgingly moving ‘headshots’ and ‘beheading’ a few slots behind in his methods of dealing with ‘human trash’ – as he called the criminals he dealt with.

Conversation between Jason and Bruce still remained largely monosyllabic and was restricted to talking shop, but at least they talked.

It was strange, yet probably understandable, that Tim was the one who found it easiest to talk to Jason. After all, they had nothing to be careful about each other except perhaps for what Tim reminded him of. Tim privately thought a ‘breakthrough’ moment between them was _that_ time…

 

* * *

 

_…when a certain criminal Jason had been pursuing sought to broaden his horizon all the way to Gotham. Tim had been a little surprised that Todd (still ‘Todd’, at that time) had asked him to help out. They fell into an idle chat while canvassing the target’s hideouts and Tim had ended up complaining about a party to be held by one of Gotham’s socialite youths, which he dreaded attending. Tim usually kept out of such private parties but some just couldn’t be avoided, if only to keep up the appearances. And Tim had been watching Adam Donnelly, ‘the founder of the feast’, for a while. Donnelly was a conduit of small vices among Gotham’s upper crust and a useful source of its underside. Timothy Drake had already turned down too many of Donnelly’s offers to let this one go. Besides, there had been recent rumors that Donnelly had got his hands on a new sort of ‘entertainment pills’ and Tim wanted to investigate._

_“Remember kid, I was in your shoes a few years back.”_

_“Sure, I heard how you crashed into a charity party on a motorcycle.”_

_After such verbal reposts, a bet was hatched – Tim would take over the hunt for Red Hood’s target while Jason would go to the party disguised as Tim._

_“Take into account that I’m at a disadvantage. Let’s hope your socialite friends are drunk enough to not notice your new height and muscles.”_

_“You’re not that taller than me, Todd. As for the physique, all you have to do is pull in that gut a bit more -.”_

_So it was that next night, Tim perched over the top of a stone building overlooking the Narrows with Jason off to a luxury yacht adrift at Gotham Harbor._

_Tim got the call about three hours later._

_“Fuck you, Drake. You didn’t tell me you were sending me to second and third circles of Hell! Actually, that’s an insult to Dante. His Hell has more class.”_

_Noticing hard whipping sound coming through the comm., Tim asked:_

_“Where are you calling from?”_

_“Hanging by the side this bloody, blasted, bloated lump of a ship, freezing my ass out.”_

_Tim supposed Todd would never be completely without some of his gears, but -_

_“Why there – “_

_“Because this is the only place with breathable air and without drunken zombies and bodily fluids. I tried the engine room and there was a whole orgy going down there! The crew will have to pry some interestingly-twisted bodies off the pipes in the morning. And if I see_ one more _couple acting out Titanic on deck, so help me, I’ll_ kick _them off….”_

_“Did you at least say hi to Donnelly for me?”_

_“The boneless guy with hair curls stolen from the Renaissance period, right? Seen him. He waved at me. Not sure if he recognized anything. Needn’t have bothered with a disguise, no one’s sober enough to notice even if Croc were here. Actually, if Croc_ had _been here, they’d just think him part of the party arrangement – including the part where he starts devouring them.”_

_“…That bad?”_

_“You know how many I saved tonight from overdosing themselves? Just being here is enough to make you an addict, the air’s full of coke and whatnot. Tell me why nobody ever reported these crackheads already.”_

_“They’d be only guilty of possession and they’d just_ wire _the fine before any of them even steps into the GCPD office. Todd, most of them aren’t really the_ bad _sort, they’re either… bored or pressured.”_

 _“Hell, most of them don’t even seem to be having fun, unless you_ enjoy _drinking your own vomit from the luxury yacht toilet.”_

_“I suppose most of the invitees are intent on getting on Donnelly’s good side. He doesn’t like it when people around him are more sober or saner than him.”_

_“It’s depressing, really. All these rich spoiled brats with money to burn and what they do is so_ predictable _– booze, drugs, and sex.”_

 _“And those ‘brats’ would take disinterest in those things as a sign of getting_ old. _”_

_“What I’m saying is, can’t these rich people at least come up with something original?”_

_“What would_ you _do for fun if you had money to burn?”_

_“Oh, get a kickass costume and a hoard of superweapons and go around beating up bad guys.”_

_They shared a laugh._

_“See, that’s the thing, Todd, real fun takes time and effort. By the way, anyone circulating any new drug? I told you to watch out for …”_

_“Just plain old coke and dope and acid. Some mighty-fine quality but nothing unusual… and for the record, I’m speaking as a mere observer, not a connoisseur.”_

_Tim was a little disappointed that rumors of Donnelly’s new find was unsubstantiated. From the other end, Jason muttered again._

_“So how are YOU doing MY job? It’s a lot better without a critical Bat-eye over you, isn’t it?”_

_“You know, I don’t do_ all _my patrols with Batman.”_

 _“But_ this _one, he doesn’t know about._ That _makes a difference – Aw, hell, gotta go, did you hear that splash?”_

_“What –“_

_“The damn Titanic enactment.”_

_In the end, Jason managed emerge intact and undetected from Donnelly’s party. Since Red Hood’s prey wasn’t caught that night, Tim had to relinquish the latest Wayne-Tech Scanner model to the former. ("What were_ you _going to give me if you lost?" "A hug and a wet kiss?")_

 

* * *

 

Things had changed, yet again.

Tim remembered the headline from the newspaper stuck among Dr. Cheng’s many pockets, and others of similar nature: “Red Hood Reverting to His Old Ways?”, “Gangs VS Vigilante – A Full-Scale War?” “Realities of Vigilante in Our Midst: Authorities and Citizens Divided On Opinions…” When questioned by Bruce, Jason mostly attributed such actions to the new NY vigilantes. He had some grounds to his defense, as Red Hood was the prominent name and with a more telling past, he had ended up with the blame that were clearly the share of other vigilante actions. While acknowledging it, Bruce hadn’t been entirely convinced.

“You were caught on the news. During daylight. That’s not usual for you,”

“So I should sleep in while some of the local gangs happen to be dayworkers?”

“And your recent actions seemed…”

“Violent? Murderous? _Just like before_?”

“I was about to say, _erratic_.”

“My turf, my way of handling things. I no longer criticize you about how _you_ run your hole, right?”

“It’s not about  _turfs_ or _running_ things -”

“You know, I’m hearing certain accusations regarding Nightwing going around in Bludhaven and while you leave _him_ to take care of his own business…”

“You’re assuming that I’ve _not_ talked that matter over with Nightwing. I just want to make sure…”

“And frankly, I'm real tired of that look you’re giving me,”

“What look – “

“ _That_ look. Like I’m a cancer about to relapse.”

That had been the last verbal communication between any of them. There were occasional texts between Jason, Tim, Dick, and Barbara and even they dwindled once Jason went undercover. Considering that the media coverage of Red Hood hadn’t decreased, Jason obviously wasn’t shirking his ‘regular’ job but it hadn’t diminished anyone’s worries.

And Jason _was_ right about those rumors in Bludhaven…

As Tim landed on a dingy back alley, he had to admit that it wasn’t only concern for Jason that he’d wanted to contact him. A very personal question floated over the ripples of his guilt.

_Have you spotted Crane lately in NY?_

“You’re gonna get TASER to your back again just standing there. Don’t you learn, Boy Wonder?”

A familiar voice sounded close behind and Tim turned. He had actually been aware of Theresa approaching since she’d rounded the corner. He couldn’t spot Steve the Barrel – the bouncer at Cheeta Pole Club and an unofficial bodyguard to Theresa – but knew he would be hulking somewhere behind the alley.

Tim’s smile turned into a frown as Theresa quickly palmed something over to him, as nimble as any seasoned pickpocket in the Narrows – only doing it in reverse.

“Thought you might want to take a look at these as soon as possible,”

Tim stared at what lay in his hand – several capsule pills. He tried to remain impassive as recognition hit.

“Where did you get these, Theresa-?”

Only then did he really look at her. She’d been wearing a shabby coat with a hood to cover her head but it was thrown back now – revealing a jeweled pin in the shape of a wing on her raven tresses. The dress that peeked through the coat also had a similar wing-shaped marking studded with quartz. It was far removed from her usual ‘uniform’ as a pianist and a part-time bartender at the Pole Club. It stirred a memory from Tim. The time when Bruce Wayne and his wards had been invited to the opening of Ronald Marsh’s new hotel.

The attendants had been wearing the same attire.

“You’re working at Marsh’s -? Theresa, I told you –“

“Later. I nabbed those pills from a gent at the hotel club. They're the same ones, aren't they? The ones that psycho used - ”

Tim told himself that he couldn’t be sure. A pill capsule was just a pill capsule, even if these were filled with green liquid instead of usual powder. Yet a part of him was certain of what the capsules contained: Far from its original form. Mixed and diluted with plenty of other chemicals but at its base…

Crane’s fear toxin.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Cirque des Rois des Clowns’ is a group of Joker followers that play a role in "Batman: Europa". That particular story may or may not have happened in 'this' verse. 
> 
> Dante's second circle of Hell contains sinners guilty of lust, while the third circle's sin is gluttony. 
> 
> 'Narrows Street Irregulars', of course, is a parody of 'Baker Street Irregulars'.


End file.
